


When All Thoughts Stopped

by ShippingShips



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Depressing, Dr John Watson - Freeform, Drugs, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sickfic, Suicide, shortfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingShips/pseuds/ShippingShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes attempts suicide, leaving partner Dr John Watson to be the one who will find his body.<br/>However, regrets seep in half way through his suicide, and Sherlock regrets everything and tries to stay alive long enough for help to arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All Thoughts Stopped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [internetpiratearrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetpiratearrr/gifts).



> I'm really sorry guys, this fic is really sad :(  
> Warning: includes suicide/attempted suicide/death - may be triggering. Do NOT read if this may mentally affect your health in anyway.  
> Rate: 14+  
> SHORTFIC STORY

"I'll be back soon," John called, closing the front door of 221B behind him.  
Sherlock strode over to the window to look down at the street below him, where John was successfully hailing a cab. His eyes stung slightly as salty tears threatened to spill over, and fall down his beautiful complexion.

That was the last time he would ever see his doctor, John Watson.

John had left the flat just a moment ago thinking that he would return home that evening to be greeted by Sherlock; they would go over case studies together, look for an unsolved murder that was worth their time - maybe even cook something for dinner. Not that Sherlock Holmes ever usually ate.

The detective bit the inside of his cheek and turned away from the glass, and walked over to his desk.  
Picking up a pen in his shaking right hand, he wrote:

Forgive me, John.  
-William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Sherlock hardly ever wrote his full name on anything, but he thought that it was appropriate, for this.

* * * * 

Death is something that the detective had never before feared.  
Maybe he isn't scared of death - maybe he's just scared for John. After all, it is John who's going to be the one who discovers his body, lying lifeless and emotionless on the floor. He'll probably be in the furthest stages of rigor mortis, too. Not pretty.  
The pen slipped through his lean fingers, and fell noisily to the floor. Not that he noticed.  
Sherlock's mind was busy, as he considered all of the possible 'what-ifs'.

What if he didn't do it properly?

What if John forced his body to breathe again?

What if his note was never read?

 

After the fifteen minutes of self-conducted torture that the detective had accidentally inflicted on himself, Sherlock shook the thoughts from his mind.

Thoughts. Thinking.

He wouldn't be doing much thinking when he was gone, and that (in a very twisted way) terrified him.

 

Blinking sharply, Sherlock snapped himself out of his trance, and calmly headed over towards the sofa; his seat.  
His hands were still shaking as he fumbled around inside his dressing gown pocket, the rate of his breath becoming unsteady and quick. A sharp intake of breath was taken through the detective's lips as his fingers curled around the small vile in his pocket. Withdrawing it, he sat in silence, watching the blue-green liquid splash around the vile, as if it were alive.  
Thumb and forefinger uncapped the bottle.  
Amazing light grey eyes locked themselves on John Watson's chair across from him.  
"Cheers." Sherlock muttered, lifting the vile and holding it in the musky air of flat 221B, before bringing it down to meet his lips.  
The top of the vile brushed against his Cupid's bow, as Sherlock tilted the contents of the tube into his mouth - and swallowed.

A few seconds past, but nothing appeared to have happened.

Then it hit him.

The burning sensation in the pit of his stomach rose and spread through his entire body, and Sherlock let out a howl of pain and crumpled into a ball on the floor.  
Rocking himself backwards and forwards, his fists clenched into tight balls that he pressed into his abdomen, a helpless attempt at hoping to drive out any pain.  
After twenty minutes of pure agony, and throwing up his stomach contents (even though there wasn't much food in his stomach to actually chuck up), the pain started to die away - but only slightly.  
Sherlock's forehead was beaded with sweat as he felt all of his energy drain away from his body. His eyes fell upon John's chair once more. 

John Watson, who's face he would never see again; those sparkling blue eyes that told him everything was going to be okay. That smile that reassured anybody instantly.  
Even in death.

"Joh-" Sherlock pushed himself onto his stomach, as he tried to shout for his doctor. "Joh-n!"  
His legs seemed to have failed him, so the dying detective used his arms and crawled over to the coffee table, where the phone sat.  
Just as he was about to reach out for the phone, another stab of pain, this time much more painful, lashed out at him and he crumpled on the floor in agony.  
"Joh....n." Sherlock's broken voice called out, and, pushing the pain aside as best he could, quickly reached out and took the phone off of the table.  
Never before did the detective think that you could feel so desperate when dialling a number.

"John speaking."

Sherlock fought for breaths of air, struggled to speak.

"Jo-" he broke off as yet another howl of pain escaped his lips, and he dropped the phone, as he had now begun to start writhing on the floor.

"Sherlock?" John's usually calm and steady voice had become panicked, "SHERlock?" 

Sherlock's body stilled. His head full of unruly dark curls lolled backwards and hit the floorboards, his grey eyes were still focused in the direction of John's chair, although they were now glazed over. His lips were parted slightly, a drizzle of the poisonous substance that he had earlier concocted remained on his tongue. His fingers were loosely holding a phone, in which a man's voice was desperately shouting through.

His pale skin looked almost white as the sun fought through cracks in the curtains that hung limp around all but one window.  
A little ray of sunlight had managed to work its way over to a piece of paper on Sherlocks' desk. But the note doesn't matter now, for all his thoughts had stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> I may write a chapter two for this, based on John's point of view when he comes home to find Sherlock, depending on the reviews/comments/feedback I get :) thank you for reading!


End file.
